


Easy Like

by pprfaith



Series: Naughty Hookers (Swathed in Wool) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Asexual Character, Brief Discussion of Kink, Crafts, Crochet, Family, Fluff, Future-fic, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Sex-Repulsed Character (For half a second), Snippet, Sunday mornings, time stamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9354017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: ... Sunday morning at the Hale/Stilinski house.Set six months post HYS.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely self-indulgent. I regret nothing.

+

Stiles wakes slowly. 

It involves a lot of blinking against the morning sun, stretching, making happy sounds and melting back into the fluffy, comfy, warm sheets and the giant breathing pillow behind him. 

Speaking off. He wiggles backwards a bit, gropes behind his hip and finds Peter’s hand, draws it back over his stomach for maximum cuddle effectiveness and gives a little snuffle of happiness. 

Stiles is a snuggler. He’s not afraid to admit it. 

Peter, while he likes to pretend otherwise, is even worse (better?), so he shuffles obediently closer and _good morning, Vietnam_. Stiles stills, because while they have an agreement about boners and the various ways to deal with them, exacerbating the situation and then leaving Peter hanging (or standing, as the case may be), is just mean. 

Aaaand that leads him to actually crack an eye fully open and turn his head to sort of tilt-squint at his boyfriend. “You want a hand with that?”

Because while sex is still totally gross and he doesn’t want other people anywhere near his junk, Stiles has recently found out that Peter has really awesome orgasm face and making him have that face is kind of fun. In a handjob way. Sometimes. 

The rest of the time Peter deals with it on his own and that’s fine, too. 

Peter blinks blue, blue eyes at him and mutters something that might be language, or might not be. Then he shuffles closer still, takes hold of Stiles’ mop of hair, turns his head back into a less neck-straining position and settles in for more sleep. 

Okay, then. 

He drifts back off. 

+

The thing about lazy mornings, though, is that Stiles might have learned to deal with his ADHD in productive ways since his meds-and-go teenage days, but he still can’t hold still for very long. 

After almost forty minutes of semi-asleep snuggles, he’s sort of raring to go. 

“Stiles,” Peter grumbles as he sneakily tries to shuffle out from under the older man and escape. “It’s eight. They kids are, by some miracle, still asleep. If you leave this bed, I will hurt you.”

“But Peee-ter,” Stiles whines. 

“They’ll be up and climbing all over us in half an hour anyway. Hold still.”

Eyeing the unfinished hat on the bedside table, needle stuck in the yarn cake, both just out of reach, Stiles asks, “Can I at least-“

“No.” Peter decrees and rolls himself practically on top of Stiles, pinning him in place. Which is an absolute hardship because body heat and abs and skin contact and _Peter_. Totally. Stiles is sticking with that story. “Stay.”

Grumpy, sleepy Peter is kind of adorable. “So what, I’m your cuddle slave now?”

“Yes.”

“I could fix breakfast,” he cajoles.

“You’d wake up the terrors.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, no. They’re down for at least another hour. They got treated to the Stilinski Reset Special, remember?”

Peter sighs, but apparently resigns himself to being awake enough to at least keep his hyperactive boyfriend verbally entertained. “What’s that again?”

“It’s awesome, is what it is,” Stiles defends. He’s gotten pretty good at dealing with kids in the past months and the way he used to reset himself when he fucked up his sleep schedule beyond salvaging turns out to be a great way to get the kids to sleep late, for once. Exhaust them physically (Scott, Isaac and the park), feed them a heavy dinner (there were enough fries to feed a small country), keep them up until way past their bedtime ( _Tangled_. And _Frozen_. And then the first half of _Finding Nemo_ because it’s a classic). And then a little twist he copied from Alli’s insomniac nights: hot water bottles. (And _done_.)

They were out like lights and should stay that way at least until nine. 

There is no way Stiles can hold still until nine. He wiggles experimentally.

Peter sighs. “If I let you have your hook, are you going to hold still?”

“That’s sort of a contradiction in terms, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Sure thing, old man.”

“Shut it, baby boy,” Peter counters and ohhhhh – 

“Kinky. Are you into that? Should I borrow Cora’s pacifier?”

Who knew highly-paid, top-notch lawyers actually stoop low enough to make gagging noises. 

“Stiles,” Peter snaps. “I fucking hate you.”

“Hey, no kink shaming.” Stiles buries his face in his pillow to hide his grin. 

“I’m not kink shaming. I’m complaining about your dragging my child into it. That is wrong.”

Which is sort of why Stiles did it. Disgusted Peter is also Awake Peter and Stiles is not above dragging the man along with him. He still has boxes to unpack (his and the Hales’), breakfast to make, a blanket for little Alli to finish and, hopefully, finally, a Skype date with big Alli. She flew out on Friday and should be all settled into her company-sponsored apartment in Greece by now and Stiles needs details almost as much a she misses her. 

BFF cold turkey might be one of the reasons he’s feeling particularly fidgety this lovely morning. Also, his dad made noises about maybe coming up for the afternoon, taking the kids out. 

The former Sheriff has discovered a new calling in being Grandpa Stilinski to both the Hale brood and Baby Reyes. He’s also kept up his promise to not wait for Stiles anymore. These days, his dad tends to just _show up_ , at least once a month. It’s occasionally stressful, not always convenient, but absolutely amazing, anyway. 

His dad cares. Stiles is still not entirely over that. 

Dragging his mind out of that particular spiral, he gets back to the actual point, which was, “Yes, I can hold still.”

Scott always does preach that relationships are about compromise. 

Peter huffs but lets him up and after a minute of fumbling, Stiles is sitting up against the headboard, working on a hat for the shop’s display, with Peter all snugged up against his legs, head in his lap, happily snoozing away. 

+

Laura is first. 

She’s a lot like Stiles in the way that, once she’s awake, she can’t not do anything, even if it’s just read a book. She peers into the master bedroom silently, finds Stiles sitting up and grins a silent good morning at him before letting herself in and climbing onto the bed behind her uncle. 

She wiggles under the excess sheets, props the book she brought up on Peter’s shoulder blades and starts reading. 

She used to hesitate when Stiles was sleeping over, a combination of residual uncertainty concerning someone not family and, Stiles tickled out of her months ago, walking in on her parents naked one time too many. Apparently Laura has always been way too quiet and the senior Hales never did remember to lock the bedroom door. 

Since both Stiles and Peter assured her that there are no clothes-off activities happening in their bedroom and she got more comfortable with Stiles all over the place, she’s a frequent flier in their bed. 

She’s a bit too old for it, really, but Isaac assures them it’s normal for traumatized kids. She does sleep on her own, she just wants company when she wakes. It’s cool. 

So Stiles crochets, occasionally testing the hat’s fit on Peter’s bedhead, Laura reads and the biggest Hale basks in between them. 

+

Cora comes next, all bowed legs and soggy diaper. Laura rolls her eyes, but since she’s the one not weighted down by Snuggle Octopus Peter, she goes and changes her sister like the amazing, wonderful girl she is. Stiles makes a mental note to put extra chocolate chips into her pancakes later.

Once they come back, he hauls a significantly more comfortable Cora onto his side of the bed, where she promptly dives under the covers, crawling around until she finds a comfy spot between his right leg and Peter’s hip, and curls up to go back to sleep, muttering to herself.

Really. The canine jokes just write themselves. 

Since Cora is actually sleepy and quiet, though, Stiles keeps them to himself, occasionally leaning around Peter to stroke the little lump under the sheets and check that she’s still breathing and not, like, suffocating under there. 

+

Derek is last, hauling Mr. Tassels, their four-month-old tomcat, along. 

Laura picked the name, tongue in cheek, to tease her brother. The joke flew right over the kid’s head, though, and Stiles endorsed the name. 

Seeing the lemon face Peter makes every time he’s forced to stand in the front yard and call for Mr. Tassels by name is his freaking Patronus memory.

Derek deposits the cat on top of Cora, which results in a brief scuffle through the blankets and a spooked Mr. Tassels curling up in the small of Peter’s back, occasionally pawing at Laura’s book just to fuck with her. 

Derek climbs up on Stiles’ other side and sort of digs his stubby little fingers into Stiles’ stomach to anchor himself because there isn’t really enough space for him to sit with both ass cheeks on solid ground. 

“What’re ya makin’?” he asks, still drowsy. Cat probably woke him up. 

“Socks,” Laura answers before Stiles can, because she’s a little shit. 

Derek squints at Stiles’ hands, unconvinced. When he finally figures it out, he leans forward, jams an elbow into Stiles’ gut and announces, “Poophead!”

Peter opens one eye to glare. Derek shrinks. “Sorry.”

Laura chortles, then scowls as Mr. Tassels makes her book fall over, creasing a page. 

Derek giggles at her misfortune.

“Hey!” she complains.

“Hey yourself,” he shoots back.

“You’re the poophead!”

“Poopy, poopy,” comes the chorus from under the sheets.

“Laura!” Peter turns his head to glower at his niece, in the process dislodging the cat, who tries to stabilize himself by digging his claws into bare skin. 

Peter cringes, batting at the beast, which in turn almost sends Stiles’ yarn flying. He lunges for it, pulling away from Derek, who goes ass over teakettle off the edge of the bed.

At the resulting _thump_ everyone stills. 

Even Cora pauses her chanting. 

Stiles leans over. “You okay, bud?”

Derek, rubbing his sore butt, scowls fiercely, so Stiles offers him a hand up and yanks. The force of it is enough to catapult Derek smack on top of the cat and his sister, which might or might not be what Stiles intended. 

The cat yowls, Laura cusses, Derek flails, and Peter, buried under all three, sends Stiles a murderous glare. 

He should have let Stiles get up when he wanted to. 

Then Cora, attempting to get out from under the mess, buries her knee in Stiles’ junk and it all devolves from there. 

+


End file.
